


The Other Side

by cthulhu_with_a_fez



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Character Study, massive amounts of headcanoning in the a/ns because there's no canon backstory, reverb 2015
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-09 03:00:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4331238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cthulhu_with_a_fez/pseuds/cthulhu_with_a_fez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you can't see the source, sometimes all you have are reflections. And with 800 years' worth of them - well. Which ones would you like to see? </p><p>Character study of Giriko, as seen through the eyes of those around him. Written for Soul Eater Reverb 2015.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Scientifically Accurate Notes Are Good, Scientifically Accurate Evil Is Not

**Author's Note:**

Sorry for putting these in the text, but it was formatting weirdly and I didn't know how to fix it.

So, Giriko. We really don’t know much about him other than that he’s a self-wielding weapon, he’s Arachne’s minion, and he’s been body-jumping down his line of descendants for 800 years through the use of Loew Village’s golem-enchanting magic. (We also know that he’s a total fuckbucket, but that doesn’t really help with regards to a functioning backstory.) It’s kinda hard to write a character-centric story when we know so little about them, so I had to fill in a lot of blanks on my own. There are a lot of extensive pieces of headcanonry that might not be clearly explained, or that were relevant but I couldn't figure out a good way to include them without sounding like a textbook in-chapter, so I'll add an explanation in the a/n at the end of the chapter. That being said, I hope you all enjoy it!

This story is dedicated entirely to ilarual, who put up with skype messages like "arachne vs. spider-gwen: the silent movie ft. soul as the accompanist" and encouraged me to finish and beta'd it and basically what i am trying to say is without her it would not exist and i am eternally grateful.

Also, quick note about the timestamps and other notations - I was using years AD, but then I realized that was dumb because what would witches need to follow human era notation for? Witches don’t really seem to care much about humans, other than how much trouble they can cause with them/how much science they can do with them (hi Medusa), so I figured they’d track years by something a little more witch-related than the birth of Jesus and some random day in the middle of winter. Like, say, the number of years their queen has been in power (hence MR in the timestamps - Mabaa’s Reign) and the number of lunar cycles it’s been since the start of a given year. So, for example, a date of 22/1 6242 MR would read ‘the 22nd day of the 1st month, year 6242 of Maaba’s reign’.

Also, her subject notation. The letters are the genus/species initials of the subject in question, and the number is the subject number - hypothetical subject SF-05 would be the 5th specimen of the adorable eastern cottontail rabbit, or Sylvilagus floridanus. SF-05, see? Abbreviations used below are MM for Mus musculus (lab mouse) and HS for Homo sapiens (human).

* * *

 

_**Excerpt from Arachne's Laboratory Notes** _

_**800 Years Pre-Series** _

 

* * *

 

 **ENTRY 538 - 25/4 6242 MR**  
Although some magical stimulus was required to initiate base-state reversion, animal testing for Experiment #306 has proven fruitful in subjects MM124-MM170.  Reversion issue unlikely to hinder progress with weapon-state integration in sapient beings. Once suitable subjects are found, Experiment #306 can progress to human trials.

Note - further research may be required on the process of corruption in animal souls at a later date (see subject MM98).

 **ENTRY 539 - 7/9 6242 MR**   
After several months spent observing potential human subjects, minimal progress has been made. Human souls vary too widely for experimental viability. Some genetic lines appear more consistent than others, although subject pools are limited. If no suitable subject pool exists, multigenerational observation might be necessary.

 **ENTRY 540 - 29/12 6242 MR**  
Locating a suitable subject pool has been more difficult than originally anticipated. The Reaper seems to have taken humans under his protection, and any undue threat draws his attention. The humans strike up such a clamor when even one of their own goes missing. The genetic lines under current observation are too high-profile in the human world to be smoothly extracted. If searching farther afield yields no results, selecting unrelated humans with souls similar in caliber may be a last resort. Entries will resume when a suitable subject pool has been located.

 **ENTRY 541 - 14/11 6243 MR**  
After almost a year of searching, an ideal set of candidates has been found - a large family of humans in Japan, of the Nakatsukasa bloodline , all showing consistently high-strength souls. The danger of other humans alerting the Reaper of the absence of these humans is minimal, as other humans seem not to care about low-status members of their own species. Observation will continue.

Note - The status of Nakatsukasa clan is something of an aberration, as hereditary soul strength is far more often a trait of kings than serfs. Further research required.

 **ENTRY 542 - 30/11 6243 MR**  
Further research on the Nakatsukasa clan (further referred to as ‘group HS-N’) has proven fruitful. Humans of group HS-N had been tied to shrines and the like until they fell out of their daimyo’s favor circa 6000 MR/800 AD. The strong predisposition towards powerful souls has endured regardless of social stature. Civil unrest will make extraction of subjects smoother than previously expected - disgraced, low-status humans are seldom missed, and the Reaper turns a blind eye to human conflict. The experiment finally progresses.

 **ENTRY 543 - 1/1 6244 MR**  
Group HS-N was extracted from their environment without undue fuss. Lab space has been expanded once again to accommodate the subjects, and materials have been reviewed. The subjects have been grouped according to physical maturity, ranging from infants to mature adults - 28 viable subjects total. Those whose bodies are ill-equipped to adapt have been discarded.

Note - Subject MM-98 has developed the ability to rapidly digest meat.

 **ENTRY 544 - 5/1 6244 MR**  
Experiment #306, Subject HS-N15 (Female/14y/48.53 kg/154.94 cm)

Attempted to replicate the distribution of phasma achieved in subjects MM124-MM170 in the body mass of subject HS-N15. Concentrated phasma injected into brachial artery. Subject displayed no changes. Subject placed into isolation for further observation. Perhaps multiple injections necessary to achieve desired results?

 **ENTRY 545 - 12/1 6244 MR**  
Experiment #306, Subject HS-N15 (Female/14y/48.29 kg/154.9 cm)

Subject displays no external change after 24 hrs observation. Attempted a second dose. Subject displayed signs of distress at time of injection. Vital signs elevated, although not dangerously so. Subject displayed no immediate signs of change. Subject returned to isolation. Magical catalyst necessary?

 **ENTRY 545 - 19/1 6244 MR**  
Experiment #306, Subject HS-N15 (Female/14y/46.61 kg/154.9 cm)

Subject showing signs of mild fever and wavelength disruption. Metabolic reactions increased, causing a decrease in weight. Nutrient intake adjusted accordingly. Possibly a sign of successful phasmal integration? Third injection administered. Subject displayed no immediate signs of change. Subject returned to isolation.

 **ENTRY 546 - 26/1 6244 MR**  
Experiment #306, Subject HS-N15 (Female/14y/46.98 kg/155.0 cm)

Subject’s fever remains constant. Injection reduced to a half-dose. Subject’s wavelength becoming erratic, potentially unstable - possible warning signs for soul corrosion. Subject returned to isolation.

Note - for smoother integration in future subjects, lower the intake rate?

 **ENTRY 547 - 1/2 6244 MR**  
Experiment #306, Subject HS-N15 (Female/14y/46.97 kg/155.3 cm)

Subject’s wavelength has stabilized. Phasmal integration appears seamless. Phasmal density ratio lower than that of subjects MM124-MM170 by 11.349%. Half-dose injection administered. Wavelength destabilized for approximately 20 mins. before returning to standard patterns. Subject returned to isolation.

 **ENTRY 548 - 8/2 6244 MR**  
Experiment #306, Subject HS-N15 (Female/14y/46.95 kg/156.0 cm)

Although phasmal profile similar to subjects MM124-MM170, magical stimulus proved insufficient to achieve transformation. Subject returned to isolation.

Subjects HS-N01 through HS-N17 (sans subject HS-N15) given first injections. Dosage adjusted to soul caliber and body mass at 75% original potency. All vital signs normal, no external change. Wavelengths stable. Subject HS-N07 showed signs of distress typical of separation anxiety at the removal of subject HS-N08 from holding area. Subject has been sedated. Permanent separation may be necessary.

Subjects HS-N18 through HS-N28 expressing signs of anger and distress while viewing the handling of subjects HS-N01 through HS-N17. Human parents can become violently protective of their young - application of sedatives may be required.

Note - Subjects HS-N18, HS-N19, and HS-N20 have been removed from the common group for studies on fetal development under phasmal influence. Brachial injection dosage should be calibrated to subjects’ soul caliber, body mass, and stage of fetal growth.

 **ENTRY 549 - 15/2 6244 MR**  
Experiment #306, Subject HS-N15 (Female/14y/46.96 kg/156.1 cm)

Second magical stimulus attempted at 2x original intensity. No results. Denser phasmal load required? Subject given 75% dose and returned to isolation.

Subjects HS-N01 through HS-N17 given second injections. All vital signs normal. Wavelengths stable. Subjects HS-N01 through HS-N04 (under 1y) show increased phasmal metabolization. Shows promise for fetal testing of subjects HS-N18 through HS-N20.

First injections administered to subjects HS-N18 through HS-N26. Dosage potency at 30% the first injection of HS-N15. Mature subjects demonstrated evidence of pain for approximately 50 min. post-injection - mature systems too inflexible to adapt to an increased phasmal element?

 **ENTRY 550 - 22/2 6244 MR**  
Experiment #306, Subject HS-N15 (Female/14y/46.89 kg/156.3 cm)

Third magical stimulus yielded no results. Phasmal load beginning to trigger physical mutations typical of corrupted souls - serrating of teeth likely irreversible. Further brachial injections inadvisable. External stimulus has proven inefficient. Internal metabolic process required? Lowest-caliber witch phasma 4x intensity of first external stimulus. Predictions unclear.

Subjects HS-N01 through HS-N17 given third injections. N01-N04 showing marked increase in soul caliber. Dosage adjusted to +25% base value. N13-N17 displaying signs of aggression - normal adolescent development? Primary tooth loss occurring in N07 and N08.

Subjects HS-N18 through HS-N26 given second injections. Dosage potency unchanged from previous administration. Minor physical mutations occurring in subjects HS-N22 and HS-N25. All wavelengths stable. Fetal phasmodevelopment accelerated from normal growth patterns.

 **ENTRY 551 - 29/2 6244 MR**  
Experiment #306, Subject HS-N15 (Female/15y/46.90 kg/156.4 cm)

Subject showed signs of extreme pain on injection of witch phasma. Attempts to direct the energy flow were unsuccessful, and extreme physical mutations spread to the skeletal system. Subject’s thoracic vertebrae developed elongated spinous and transverse processes composed almost entirely of weapon-grade steel. The elongations pierced the subject’s skin and kidneys, causing increased blood toxicity and eventual death. Closer examination of spinal elongations indicate possible weapon type of flanged mace.

Results indicate a failed partial transformation to a weapon form. Reaction progressed too quickly due to high phasmal density, causing loss of subject’s control over the process. Lower levels of catalyst could produce more manageable transformations.

Other subjects appear visibly distressed by the results of HS-N15’s procedure, particularly HS-N20 and HS-N25. Prior observation indicates that subjects HS-N20 and HS-N25 were the parents of subject HS-N15. Subjects’ wavelengths currently display marked instability, possibly as a result of viewing subject HS-N15’s procedure. Test area may need to be hidden from subjects’ view to prevent undue phasmal fluctuation, as it may compromise data integrity. Subjects HS-N06 through HS-N17 begin witch phasma trials in two days.

Subjects HS-N01 through HS-N17 given fourth injections. No further physical mutations. The primary teeth of subject HS-N07 have fallen at an abnormally accelerated rate. Subject’s permanent teeth show marked serration along upper and lower incisors, cuspids, and bicuspids. Preexisting genetic anomaly or physical mutation? Subject HS-N08 shows no sign of these traits.

Subjects HS-N18 through HS-N26 given third injections. Physical mutations in subjects HS-N22 and HS-N25 have grown more prominent, although phasmal density is far below that of HS-N15. Physical mutations have occurred in subject HS-N19, although the subject’s fetus appears unaffected. Further observation required.

 **ENTRY 552 - 2/3 6244 MR**  
Experiment #306, Subject HS-N08 (Male/12y/40.03 kg/147.32 cm)

Subject injected with half-concentration witch phasma to no immediate effect. External magical stimulus triggered a partial transformation to a dagger-form weapon. Although the subject’s blade was composed of normal steel, the crossguard, handle, and pommel were made of a section of femur. The grip of the handle was wrapped in the subject’s skin. No wavelength detected. Further external stimulus  forced a reverse transformation. Subject reformed into a liquefied mass of flesh, bone, and metal, with fluid runoff dripping onto the floor. Subject presumed deceased.

Subject appears to have used own phasmal energy in an attempt to complete the transformation. Diluted witch phasma is clearly not potent enough to sustain a full transformation - perhaps it’s not the catalyst but the reactant that required reduction. Pending successful transformations, further research required on the location and composition of subjects’ bodies while in weapon form. Transformation process similar to butterfly metamorphosis, with liquified flesh state stored in weapon ‘chrysalis’?

Subject HS-N07 displayed extreme distress during subject HS-N08’s procedure, and required sedation after N08’s reformation. Subject accrued minor injuries from attempting to escape his containment area, screaming and crying for several hours after the test concluded. Past observations indicate that subject HS-N08 was the brother of subject HS-N07, explaining subject HS-N07’s state of advanced hysteria. Further monitoring required - past research indicates a human tendency for irrational actions while processing excesses of emotion. Subject sedated and placed in isolation.

Subjects HS-N01 through HS-N17 remain in stable condition, although those old enough to display advanced cognition appear visibly disturbed after witnessing subject HS-N08’s procedure. Test area has been moved to avoid further distress to subjects, as watching the procedures has proven detrimental to their phasmal stability.

Subjects HS-N18 through HS-N26 given fourth injection. Phasmal density remains low. Subjects HS-N22 and HS-N25 showing marked increase in aggressive tendencies as physical mutations continue to develop. Subjects’ physical state currently sub-optimal for the success of Experiment #306. Subjects placed in isolation. Further observation required.

Subject HS-N19 has shown no further signs of physical mutation. Fetal phasmodevelopment has accelerated. Nutrient intake adjusted accordingly.

 **ENTRY 553 - 9/3 6244 MR**  
Experiment #306, Subject HS-N13 (Female/14y/41.20 kg/163.83 cm)

Subject injected with full-concentration witch phasma at a base density rate 80% that of subject HS-N15. Transformation to weapon state smooth. (Weapon type: chain scythe.) Wavelength became erratic after 3 min. spent in weapon state. Weapon state became physically unstable after 5 min. Subject released full weapon state after 6 min. Subject’s weapon state did not fully retract, leaving subject’s skin with high concentrations of metal in the epidermis. Subject shows signs of distress, likely due to subdermal abrasions and bleeding. Subject immobilized to prevent further damage. Further observation required.

Initial phasmal density and witch phasma concentration appear correct. Initial transformation sequencing appears nominal - external magical stimulus required to stabilize the weapon state? Subject’s continued survival indicates an improval of technique as compared to previous tests.

Subjects HS-N06 through HS-N17 show decrease in base phasmal density. Brachial injection administered at 15% original phasmal load . Subjects HS-N01 through HS-N07 show no signs of decrease - further proof that adaptivity, both physical and phasmal, decreases severely with the advent of maturation.

Subject HS-N07 has been nonverbal since sedation. Subject’s wavelength shows consistent signs of aggression atypical to early adolescents, likely due to the death of subject HS-N08. Subject maintains a 94.38% phasmal retention rate despite wavelength irregularity - too high to justify removing HS-N07 from subject pool. Close observation of subject continues.

Subjects HS-N18 through HS-N26 given fifth injection. Phasmal retention rates remain low. No physical mutation has occurred beyond subjects HS-N18, HS-N22, and HS-N25.

Subjects N22 and N25 show marked decrease in prefrontal cortex activity along with an enlarged hypothalamus. Subjects’ erratic wavelengths displaying patterns similar to those of corrupted souls. No brachial injection was administered.

Subject HS-N18 showing no further physical mutation. Wavelength stable. Accelerated fetal phasmodevelopment has continued, to no noticeable effect on subject HS-N18.

 **ENTRY 554 - 16/3 6244 MR**  
Experiment #306, Subject HS-N07 (Male/8y/24.67 kg/126.50 cm)

Subject injected with full-concentration witch phasma at a base phasmal density of 87%. Transformation sequence nominal. Directed magical stimulus through the process of weapon form solidification succeeded in stabilizing the transformation. Wavelength emanating from subject’s weapon form became erratic after 3 min. continual stimulus, steadied after stimulus ceased. Weapon form appears stable. (Weapon type: short-handled scythe.) Subject independently achieved reverse transformation after 11 min. spent in weapon form. Subject returned to isolation, displaying only minor physical mutations of the skin. Subject’s dental aberrations remain unchanged. Subject remains nonverbal.

Despite physical aberrations, subject HS-N07 has become the first successful human trial of Experiment #306. Subject displays attempts to re-initiate weapon state. Subject appears unsuccessful, although guided training and/or magical stimulus may accelerate complete independant metamorphosis. Technique used should prove viable for future subjects, although continued testing will likely result in further-refined execution. HS-N07 should be considered a prototype.

Subjects HS-N01 through HS-N04 display phasmal intensity on par with a mature human adult. Thus far, no physical mutations have occurred. Subjects support hypothesis of reduced adaptability upon onset of physical maturation.

Subjects HS-N18 through HS-N26 display extreme resistance to phasma metabolization and an increased proclivity towards physical mutation. Considering discarding adults up as viable subjects in favor of further focus on subjects HS-N01 through HS-N17 - subjects should provide enough phasmal energy to replenish laboratory resources. No further fetal developments have been observed in subjects HS-N18 through HS-N20.

 **ENTRY 555 - 17/3 6244 MR**  
What an irony it is, that subject HS-N07 - the first in a line of weapons created to defy the Reaper himself - takes the form of the Reaper’s own symbol of power. I do believe I’ll keep that one for myself. I might even, if he behaves, allow him a name - if I recall correctly, subject HS-N08 called him Giriko. What a pity he didn’t make it. I could have done so much more with brothers.   

 

* * *

 

_(This whole thing kept copying to the other chapters when I put it in the endnotes box and i didn't know how to mAKE IT GO AWAY.)_

A/N part 2: This chapter is mostly dedicated to Dr. Abraham Erskine's apparent lack of research notes re: the super-soldier serum. Because seriously, what the hell. The only reason the SSR needed the 'extract it from Steve Rogers's blood' plan was because of a lack of lab notes, and the reason they don’t have lab notes is probably because Erskine didn’t write any. Although, I mean, the SSR could have just misfiled them really badly, or something - NASA apparently overwrote the tape containing the footage from the Apollo moon landing, so it’s not out of the question for a government agency to lose Important Things - but still. Record your data, people. It’s only science if you write it down.

Also, a couple other things.

We don’t actually know a lot about what happened pre-canon, but here’s some of the facts:

  1. The Nakatsukasas were one of the first, if not THE first, major weapon bloodlines ever created.

  2. Arachne was the one who created weapons in the first place.

  3. Giriko was with her at the time

  4. Giriko is a weapon




If you do a little math, you end up with 1 + 2 + 3 + 4 = Giriko was one of the original Nakatsukasas who either defected to Arachne’s side and/or who she took with her on the run once Lord Death and the witches caught wind of her activities. I mean, it’s possible that she made him on the run, or that she bartered weaponhood to an enchanter in Loew in exchange for possessing his golem, but I’d be more willing to assume he was one of her lab rats. That might also have to do with his state of mild insanity - madness in the SE ‘verse affects the soul as much as or moreso than the mind, so having that be tampered with (on top of having lived thirty consecutive lives, which is straight-up Not What People Are Designed For) would have a pretty resounding effect on his sanity.

Also, an interesting note about timelines - in the 1200s (aka 800 years pre-series, aka when Arachne was doing her very best Mengele impersonation trying to make weapons), Japan was transitioning from the Heian era to the Feudal era. In a nutshell, there were a bunch of rebellions happening from 1156 to 1185, after which a guy named Yoritomo got appointed to a bunch of high government positions. These all got consolidated, he became the first shōgun, and then, well. Basically Game of Thrones happened. A civil war broke out between the four strongest military clans and the powerful regional families (aka daimyō), everyone was fighting everyone, the samurai became a thing, and a whole new power structure fell into place that lasted for about 400 years.

Why is this important, you might ask, other than being a nice little tidbit of history? The answer is a cover story. Most people with strong souls tend to be leaders of nations, or something - powerful wavelengths tend to manifest in the form of charismatic leadership. Rulers get noticed, royal bloodlines get watched, and if someone randomly snatched up an entire family Lord Death would have been all over that because entire royal families do not just randomly disappear. In the case of the Nakatsukasas, though? They were a whole family of spiritually strong humans that no one would care about disappearing because 1) they were low-status to begin with and 2) who would have the time, effort, or care to spend on a family disappearing from a heavily-contested area in the middle of a civil war?

Even if someone thought it was suspicious and tried to reach Lord Death, it’s unlikely that anything would come of it. Lord Death probably stays out of major human conflicts unless he’s there to deal with a specific instance of supernatural evil. If someone sent him a message that said ‘hey this whole family just up and vanished can you check it out please’, he would probably look at Japan, see all of these different factions of humans duking it out, and move on because, hey, what are you going to do? Civilian casualties happen. And after a year or two, people would be too busy keeping themselves safe to worry about it. Tons of sketchy things slide under the radar due to civil unrest all the time, even with as much media coverage (both licensed news media and social media) as we have today. It wouldn’t be altogether surprising.

And some more of my headcanons about witch timekeeping, in case you were interested. Witch civilization probably started a lot earlier than human civilization due to them being, yanno, a magically advanced species, so it’s not a far stretch to assume that they had developed a standardized calendar system and functional astronomy by the time humans started settling in Mesopotamia. (Maybe they were the ones who introduced standard timekeeping to humans in the first place.) My headcanon for witch timekeeping is that days are the same, weeks aren’t really a thing, months are tracked by the phases of the moon, and can vary in number based on how many lunar cycles fit in a year. Hence notation in Day/Month format - it’s the number of days elapsed in a month, and then the number of lunar cycles that have happened so far that year. They track eras, though, by the number of years their queen has reigned - and in this case, the queen is Mabaa. It’s not unreasonable to assume that a witch could live for several thousand years, considering that Arachne is none the worse for wear after her 800-year stint as a Horcrux, so it’s likely that Maaba’s been the queen from day one. Assuming a thousand-year head start on humanity, and assuming that the series timeline begins some time in the early 2000s, Maaba would have been queen for somewhere in the vicinity of 7,000 years by the time the series starts. Backing up 800 years from canon puts us somewhere in the 1200s AD, which would be somewhere near the 6200s MR - 1200 years AD plus ~5000 years BC, ish.

And, lastly, a fun fact about butterflies and moths - when caterpillars undergo metamorphosis, they seal themselves up in their chrysalis (or cocoon, if it’s a moth) and literally dissolve into white goo which reassembles into a butterfly a week or two later. Scientists figured this out by slitting open chrysalises before the metamorphosis process was complete. Which kinda got me thinking - what would Arachne do if a subject only made it halfway, and then died in weapon form? The answer, apparently, is poke the weapon with magic until it turned back into a person. Who, at the time of death, was technically a bunch of fleshy chrysalis goo. Cue flood of viscera across the laboratory floor.

**This is the longest A/N i have ever written, I swear to god, but it’s finally over.**

 


	2. Listening to Old People is Sometimes the Best Idea

Lenka Novakova glared down from her kitchen window at the bustling street below, clutching her shawl with one gnarled hand to ward off the cold sinking into her bones. Despite the overcast weather, small clusters of people chatted amiably around the public drinking fountain - some holding paper-wrapped packages from the dry-goods store, others holding bags of clay to bring back to the kilns – while children ran around shrieking like banshees over some on-the-spot game. The town had gotten much too loud. She thought wistfully of the days when Loew was just a quiet little farming town on the edge of the woods, with no noise save that of the farmers’ roosters to disturb the morning, and glared a little harder. Ever since the town’s potters had made an industry out of their art, Loew had done nothing but grow big and brash and noisy, clogged with the smoke from the kilns and the bustle of the people who worked them. Tch. More and more young men of the town had abandoned their family’s farm in favor of making those newfangled _golems_ , stealing traditions that had been passed from mother to daughter through the years for the sake of profit. And worst of all, none of them bothered to listen to her anymore.

Time was, the town looked to their wise old Auntie Novakova to tell them when to plant their crops, or to give them a remedy for their ills, or to say sooth on any number of other things. She would read the wind, and the trees, and the earth, and her own bones for the signs, and she was rarely ever wrong. The town respected her, had asked her for the honor – the honor! – of her wisdom, and she’d given it freely. And how had they repaid her, now? By laughing off her predictions as silly superstition. She’d tried to warn them about that hailstorm, but had any of those brash young pups listened?

Of course not.

Tch.

She reached up to grab her copper-bottomed kettle from its peg above the stove, holding it against her side as she hobbled towards the stairs. A good cup of tea would warm her up properly, but she had to get her water first. She paused at the door, tugging her shawl a little tighter around her shoulders, and stepped out into the street.

It only took a few steps before someone slammed into her shoulder in far more of a hurry than anyone had any right to be. She was knocked off her balance, teetering precariously before some bystander or other caught her. The kettle, though, had clattered its way into the street, the previously gleaming exterior covered in scratches, gutter grime, and puddle-water.

“There goes my tea,” she muttered, brushing a hand against her shoulder as if to remove the lingering touch of rudeness left by her assailant.

The woman who’d caught her, a soft-faced housewife with the telltale dry hands of a potter, hovered nearby as if worried she would tip over again. A ridiculous notion, as Lenka was perfectly steady on her feet when not being knocked aside by some young hooligan. Speaking of whom…

“Excuse me, but do you know that young man’s name?” she asked the woman, pointing in the direction that her as-yet-unnamed assailant had gone.

“Oh, him? That’s Giriko Nakatsukasa. He only arrived a few weeks ago – he’s in training to become an enchanter, if you can believe it. I didn’t think the guild accepted outsiders!”

“Giriko, hm?” Lenka rolled the name around in her mouth, tongue curling around the foreign-sounding syllables. She had never liked foreigners. “If he’s not from Loew, where did he come from?”

The woman shrugged. “He hasn’t said. But I heard that he’s from an island called Japan.”

“Hmm. Well, island or no island, that ruffian ruined my kettle. Do you know where he might be found?”

She tilted her head to the side, considering. “You could check with the enchanters’ guildhall. Someone there might know where he’s staying.”

Lenka gave her a curt nod. “Thank you.”

Collecting her poor kettle from the street and resolving to beat this upstart foreigner in the head with it for the inconvenience he’d caused her, she shuffled off down the street again, this time glaring daggers at anyone within three paces. A few blocks’ journey brought her to the headquarters of Loew’s guild of enchanters.  It was a terribly ostentatious building, shaped much like a kiln – more or less rounded, dome-roofed, and circled with façade pillars which mimicked the shape of the town’s many crooked chimneys. The doors were kept closed by an antique kiln latch. Lenka lifted it and pulled open the door, determined to teach the newcomer who couldn’t be bothered to move out of the way of his elders some proper manners.

Sitting around a table in the main hall were a cluster of youths, all maybe in their twenties, wearing bulky gloves that reached up past their elbows. Four of them were brown-haired and stocky, village boys that Lenka recognized dimly from festivals and the like. The fifth one - and the only one with bare arms - was clearly the foreigner. He was shorter than the other young men, and thinner, with inky hair sticking up in unseemly spikes above his head. His back was to the door, so she couldn’t see his face, but his oddly-accented voice rang out through the hall as a final confirmation of his identity.

“- so here I am walking down the sidewalk, right, when there’s this fuckin’ wrinkly hag in front of me who’s walking slow as SHIT. So I’m behind her for a while, and she’s only taken, what, two steps?”

The men around the table chucked at the rhetorical question, clearly enjoying the theatrics that Giriko was injecting into his tale, and Lenka saw red. So not only does he assault an old lady and her kettle, but he doesn’t even have the decency to feel sorry about it afterwards? The absolute nerve of this… this… interloper!

Lenka shuffled forwards with all the speed her rickety knees could manage, hoisting her kettle above her head and bringing it down towards the dark-haired miscreant’s head with all the fury of a soothsayer scorned, certain of a solid hit.

He caught her wrist in a painfully tight grip without ever looking backwards, continuing his account, and looking for all the world as if nothing had happened. The other occupants of the table, however, fell into a taut silence at the icy anger now tumbling through his voice.

“So I move her out of my way. And now, apparently,” he said, oddly accented words rolling scornfully off his tongue, “she’s gonna try to beat my ass with… what is that, a kettle? You gonna make me some tea, old lady?”

Still gripping her forearm with bruising strength, he flipped his head backwards, neck lolling bonelessly as he sneered at her upside-down. Thin lips curled back over jagged teeth, and dark eyes narrowed with disdain at her feeble attack.

His eyes flashed as she looked at him, the grey morning sunlight fracturing into milky-white spiderwebs across his flat, black gaze, and the old soothsayer felt her heart stutter in her chest. Something was wrong with this man. Something was deeply, deeply wrong. Her eyes darted from his face to the hand wrapped around her forearm, saw the unnatural shine of his nails just a fraction of a second before he clenched his fingers, and she whimpered softly as beads of blood welled up around his digits’ bladed tips. The spiderwebs crawled past his irises and across his sclera as he smiled wider, jaws parting, teeth sharpening, and Lenka could hear her blood rushing past her ears as her vision narrowed down, down, down to those spiderwebs, filaments of terrible magic that quivered with screams and burning metal and agony, _agony,_ wrapping around an irreparably fractured soul that cut deeply against hers and left splinters of rage and pain and madness embedded in everything it touched and he was strong, so, so strong, and he could kill her here and now with barely a thought and not a single regret and they both knew it --

The horrible visions dropped away abruptly as he released her wrist, snorting contemptuously over her shuddering breaths.

“Go home, and take your stupid kettle with you,” he said,  blood-tipped fingernails flashing as he threw his arm nonchalantly behind his head.  

Lenka hissed softly at him before backing away from the table, clutching her kettle like a shield against evil. Giriko just kept grinning, head tilted backwards, tongue lolling out between parted jaws. The men behind him were clearly confused, and Lenka wanted to scream at them to run, to flee, to hide, somewhere far away from that man and his sharp, sharp soul. But who would believe her?

No one listened to old Auntie Novakova anymore.

Not even when she warned of demons.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ever wondered what a soul that'd been through the wringer of Arachne-related experimental trauma looked like? The answer is 'not pretty'. Also, more people in stories need to listen to their village soothsayer/wise woman/respected elders because it would probably avert at least one major crisis.


	3. Not Being In The Know Is Safer And Hurts More

Your mother warned you, when you were little, not to talk to the Dusek boy. You remember curling up by her side as she knitted, watching in fascination as she looped the scratchy wool around her needles with practiced ease as the rain pattered lightly against the windowpanes.

“Be a good girl and listen to your mother, now,” she had said, and you had straightened your spine and sat at attention and tried to prick your ears up like the dogs in the street do when you whistle at them, because you had always tried your hardest to listen to your mother. She had finished her row, glanced at you, and smiled, before turning her needles and starting another.

“Do you know the Duseks?” she’d asked, smile fading slightly as the name passed by her lips. “The family down the road?”

You had thought hard about it, wrinkling your little brows together in concentration. No one had immediately come to mind, although it was hardly your fault for it - the whole town had stopped by your family’s dry-goods shop at some point or another, and an eight-year-old couldn’t be expected to remember _everyone_.

“No-ooo,” you’d started slowly, before brightening, remembering something else. “I do know their boy, though! His name’s Karel, and he sits across from me in school. We play together sometimes during lunch. He knows lots of games. ” You’d paused for a moment, tilting your head in consideration. “I like him.”

Your mother had gone tense beside you. The rhythmic clicking of her needles had faltered slightly, before picking back up just a little faster than it had been before. You could see her skin fading pale over clenched knuckles.

“Mama? Did I say something bad?” you’d asked, wondering what you could possibly have done to upset her. She’d asked if you knew the Duseks, hadn’t she? All you’d done was answer.

Your mother had stayed silent for another moment, fingers still working the yarn, before sighing and setting her knitting aside. She’d gathered you into her lap, arms around your waist and fingers laced together behind your back, and looked you straight in the eyes with an odd sort of solemnity.

“No, baby. Nothing bad. But I need you to stop playing with Karel.”

“What’s wrong with him?” you had asked, blinking confusedly. “Is it because he’s a boy? Because he’s not rough like the big boys, honest - he’s really shy.”

Sometimes he would come to school with bruises on him like the big boys after a fight, though, so you might be wrong - but he never pulled your hair, or shouted names, or got into scuffles with the other boys. You’d asked about the bruises, once, and he’d mumbled something about falling down the stairs. Maybe he was just clumsy.

Your mother had smiled a little at your remark, slowly stroking your back with her thumbs. “No, it’s not because he’s a boy. It’s just that his family...”

She had trailed off, looking over your shoulder at the window. The rain was coming faster, now, drumming against the windowpanes. Thunder rumbled somewhere in the distance. She’d sighed, looking back to you with sadness in the creases by her eyes, and you had paused, expectant, watching her mouth open and close as she struggled to find the right words.

“There’s something very bad about his family, and I don’t want you to get caught up in it,” she’d said, having finally settled on the words she needed.

“What kind of bad?” you’d asked, head tilted inquisitively to the side. “Bad like apples?”

Your mother had told you about apples; how some of them were rotten to the core, and how even one of the rotten ones could spoil a whole barrel. You’d seen a rotten apple, once, in the midden heap by the grocer’s shop. Was that what Karel’s family was like?

“Not… exactly,” your mother had replied. “It’s not their bodies that are rotten, it’s their souls. Do you know what those are?”

“I think so. Granny told me that souls are something inside of you, kind of like a conscience, that say whether you’re good or bad,” you’d said, brow scrunched as you tried to remember the conversation’s details. “But Karel’s not bad!”

“I’m sure he’s not,” your mother had placated. You could tell she didn’t mean it, but she continued before you could voice an objection. “But his family is. They’re bad apples, rotten to the core - you’re too young to remember, but Karel’s grandfather was an absolute menace. His father’s no better - I’ve heard the constable talking about him many times before.”

You’d stared silently at her as she spoke, her mouth twisting like she’d tasted something sour. Her eyes, though, had been sad.

“I know he might seem kind to you now, but listen to me - people are just like apples,” she’d continued. “Even if someone starts out good, if they remain too long with rotten people, they won’t stay good for long. Get away from Karel Dusek while you still can, and stay away from his family, too.”

“But we go to school together,” you had protested, heart stinging at the potential loss of a friend. Sure, the girls there were her friends too, but none of them were _Karel_. “I can’t _help_ but see him. And besides - I’m a good apple, right? Maybe I can help him stay a good apple, too!”

Your voice had pitched up at the end with indignation, adamant in the defense of your friend, and your mother had closed her eyes. Her voice, when she spoke again, was tired.

“I can’t stop you from talking to him, love, but believe me when I tell you that it won’t end well.”

“He’s not forbidden?” you’d asked, to be certain.

“No. You can still talk to Karel. But stay away from his family - if you’re right about him, he may be the only good one in it.”

You had smiled at her, relieved that your favorite playmate was still allowed to you. “Thank you, Mama.”

“If he ever hurts you or threatens you, though, will you promise to tell me about it?” your mother had asked. “Promise me.”

Her words had been heavy, solemn, like an oath taken before a priest. They scared you a little bit, but you swallowed and nodded your head.

“I promise.”

“Good girl,” she had replied, the tired heaviness gone from her voice. Instead it was warm, like it usually was, and she’d smiled again. “Now, let’s go to the kitchen. Heavy talk like that needs a snack to chase it off.”

She rose, and you rose after her, holding one of her hands between both of yours as you walked to the kitchen. Despite the weight of the promise you’d just made, you couldn’t find it in you to feel worried. Karel was your friend, after all. He was sweet, and funny, and quiet - he would never hurt you. You were sure of it. Firm in your convictions, you padded to the kitchen by your mother’s side, tempted by the promise of food.

* * *

You remember walking to the schoolhouse with your lunch pail in hand a few months later, the sunny weather putting a skip in your step. You couldn’t wait to chat with Karel before class - you’d missed him over the weekend, and you still weren’t allowed to visit him outside of school. You hadn’t said anything to him about the conversation you’d had with your mother that rainy afternoon; he might be sensitive about his family, after all. No need to call them all bad apples, even if he was a good one.

Spotting him by the schoolyard gate, you waved to him energetically. He raised a hand in greeting quickly before dropping it to his side, a grimace of pain crossing his face. You were still a good distance away, but you couldn’t possibly have missed it. Trotting as quickly as you dared towards him - running would kick up mud, and wasn’t ladylike, besides - you could see him breathing heavily, one hand clutched to his ribs. His face was still twisted slightly with pain as you approached him, but he’d made an impressive effort to appear like everything was normal.

“Laika, hi!” he said, the attempt at brightness ruined by the way his voice hitched in the middle of your name. His eyes had bags under them, the way your father’s did when he’d stayed up all night, but you had a feeling that wasn’t the reason this time. His face was bruised today, more than it had ever been in the past. The splotches of blue-yellow-brown stretched down his neck, disappearing under his shirt, and from the way he was still gingerly holding his ribs you realized it was probably worse down below. One of the bruises on his cheek was clearly in the shape of a hand, broad-palmed and long-fingered. You gasped, the small sound clearly audible even amongst the general clamor of the schoolyard.

“Karel… those aren’t from the stairs,” you said quietly. He blanched, making the bruises stand out all the more vividly.

“No, I - really, I’m just clumsy, is all -”

“Stairs aren’t hand-shaped, are they?” you asked, the rhetorical sentence less a question than a statement. You had raised an arm slowly towards his face, as if he might spook; you let your hand hover over the imprints of the fingers on his cheek, not daring to touch it for fear of hurting him further. He turned away, scuffing his heel in the dirt, and you decided then and there to break your promise of mentioning his family. Your friend was hurting, and it wasn’t right.

“My mama told me,” you began carefully, “that if a good apple sits next to a rotten apple, the rotten one does bad things to the good apple. She said that happens with people, sometimes, too.”

Your friend stayed silent, so you pressed on. “My mama… She said that your papa was a bad apple. Is that why you have bruises?”

“No!” he cried, eyes snapping up to meet yours.  “My papa’s not bad, I swear! I was being bad, and - and he punished me, that’s all!”

“When I’m bad, the worst my papa’s ever done has been to send me to bed without supper - and then only sometimes! He’s never hit me like that,” you had replied, shocked that anyone would want to hurt your quiet friend so much. He was too nice to do something bad enough to warrant a beating like that - which could only mean that his papa was wrong, even though grown-ups were supposed to know what was best.

“I’m glad,” he’d said sincerely. “No one should hit you, Laika.”

“But it’s okay for people to hit you?” you’d asked, shocked that he could even think such a thing.

He had shrugged slightly, wincing as the motion jostled whatever injuries were hiding beneath his shirt. “It’s alright. I know how to deal with it.”

“Yes, but you shouldn’t have to!”

Your voice had come out more shrilly than you’d meant it to, and he turned away again. Silence fell between you as you stood there.

“The teacher’s going to call us in soon,” he had said quietly. “We should go.”

You walked into the small schoolhouse a step behind him, still worried, but still silent.

You had never mentioned the bruises, after that.

* * *

You remember walking to school several years later, and feeling panic flash through you when you had realized there was no one waiting to greet you at the schoolyard fence.

Karel had been coming to school with bruises more and more often as time went by, and even though you never said anything, you couldn’t help but worry. A tight knot of fear and concern had clenched tighter and tighter in your belly as you’d waited, standing by the gate and hoping for him to show. As the teacher had called you in for lessons, though, you’d resigned yourself to his absence. You went home worried and lonely that day, brushing off your mother’s questions, clinging to the hope that he would be waiting for you in the morning, just like always.

He had been missing the next morning, too.

You had kept your cool that day, as well. Maybe he wasn’t delayed. Maybe he was out sick. There were lots of reasons why someone might miss two days of school, after all - this didn’t mean anything. (You hoped.) Your mother’s questions had been even more insistent that night, and you had mumbled something about having a stomach ache before finishing your meal as fast as you could and leaving the table. You hadn’t been lying, exactly - there was a knot of worry clenched in your abdomen that was only growing tighter the more you thought about your absent friend.

You had waited by the fence again on the third day, the hope that he was only delayed having vanished. Now, you only hoped he was still alive. You had barely been able to focus on your lessons that day, making error upon error as the girls beside you tittered with embarrassment on your behalf. You didn’t care.

Karel was missing the day after that, too, and the one after that. The days had eventually turned to weeks, and the weeks into months, until you’d almost stopped waiting for him entirely.

When he showed up again, slouching against the schoolyard fence, you almost hadn’t believed it was Karel at first - he had never slouched like that before, legs crossed in front of him as he leaned against the gatepost. His eyes were closed, head bowed towards his chest in the very picture of sloth, but there he was, standing there like no time had passed at all. You had ignored the unease that twisted in your stomach - what did one affectation matter, really, now that his months-long absence was broken? - and run to greet him, skirts in hand.

“Karel, where have you _been?_ ” you had called out to him, smiling as he glanced up. “I was so worried about… you...”

He’d pushed off the fence as you approached, sauntering towards you with all the grace of a predator, and you’d stumbled to a halt, voice withering away into nothing as you took in how _different_ he looked. Not so much with regards to physical appearance, as far as you could see; he still had the dark eyes, slender build, and mess of brown hair that you remembered. But the set of his shoulders, the swing of his hips as he moved, the cadence of his pace - all of it was wrong, but you couldn’t pin your finger on _why_.

And then he grinned at you, smile replete with sharpened, serrated teeth, and your throat had closed with fear. That wasn’t Karel’s grin, soft-edged and eye-crinkling and full of good humor. That was the grin that you’d seen on men outside the tavern, whose boundaries thinned and disappeared the more they drank until they hung off each other, leering and calling out to you as you hurried home from your evening errands. That was a grin that promised danger if its bearer caught you, and it was a grin that had no business twisting its way onto the face of your friend.

Something was wrong with him.

“Hey, Laika,” he’d said, lips still curling hungrily back as he dragged his gaze down your body. The touch of his eyes made your skin crawl. You had curled one arm across your abdomen to grip your other elbow, shoulders curling forwards defensively, and had met his gaze with wary eyes.

“What, do I scare you?” he’d asked mockingly, gesturing broadly towards his face as he stepped forward. “Just a little present from dear old dad. Pretty cool, huh?”

His voice had come out just as wrong as his movements, with syllables stretched too far, broken off too sharply, timbre just a little too low and tone a little too rough, and your stomach clenched again. He’d kept advancing, closing the gap you’d left, and every instinct you had screamed _threat_.

“It takes more than teeth to scare me,” you had replied in a carefully measured tone, warily meeting his gaze and taking a large, deliberate step back. His face twisted at the action, caught somewhere between amusement and anger, and a chill shot down your spine. You had thought he was your friend, and that he wouldn’t hurt you - but clearly, that friendship disappeared when Karel had. Now, you had no idea what he might do. Another moment passed with the both of you standing in silence, until the schoolmaster called the students indoors and he turned away.

“I guess I’ll just have to find out what does,” he’d called over his shoulder, tucking his hands into his pockets and walking towards the schoolhouse. After a moment, you had followed.

The lessons that day had been easy and uneventful, leaving you plenty of time to think. What you’d told Karel had been true - his teeth alone weren’t enough to scare you. Had Karel shown up with no other difference than that, you would have been perfectly fine. But this, now… he scared you. Your quiet friend, bearer of far too many bruises, was gone. In his place was someone you didn’t understand, didn’t know, and didn’t trust in the slightest. Someone who brought so much more to bear than just his teeth to make your stomach clench in fear.

After classes came the lunch break. You had taken shelter among the cluster of girls who ate on the schoolhouse steps, tuning out their conversation as you picked at your food. You had still been too shaken up for an appetite. You’d watched him from across the yard, instead. He had produced an apple from his coat, tossing and catching it one-handedly for a minute beneath the spreading beech tree, before finally biting into it. His teeth had plunged into the fruit like knives. You had watched him devour it, core and all, throat bobbing as he swallowed, and remembered your mother’s warning.

You hadn’t gone to school any more, after that.

* * *

You remember all of this as you stare down at your daughter, curled against your side as you had been so many years back. You take a breath, hold it, and sigh.

“Nina, love,” you say, “listen to me.”

She shifts against your side and looks up at you, wide-eyed. You turn towards the window, staring out at the cloudy twilight, stroking her hair with your thumb and remembering old hurts and older warnings.

“Stay away from the Dusek boy,” you tell her, and wish you didn’t have to.


	4. Using Bodies In Ways For Which They Were Never Intended

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for moderate body horror, vomiting, and kind of assault? Just in case.

Bruno returned from school to see the kiln’s chimney smoking. This was usually a good sign - when his father was working the kiln, it usually meant he was in something of a good mood. He always seemed calmer when he was working on the ancient, lumbering golem stored in the barn. Bruno didn’t know why, and he didn’t really want to ask - it made his father happy and it kept him out of the house, and that was all he needed to know.

He opened the front door softly, setting his lunch pail down on the shelf to the left and crossing through the kitchen to his room, toeing off his shoes beneath his chest of drawers. He turned around to find his father at the foot of his bed. Bruno flinched violently at the surprise, losing his balance and falling to the floor with a soft thud,and his father smirked. He was leaning against the wall, arms - covered past the elbow in bulky enchanter’s gloves - crossed over his chest, and sharp teeth gleaming from between parted lips. A knot of panic clenched in Bruno’s stomach at the sight, because this wasn’t supposed to happen. His father never came into his room if he wasn’t angry, and he was almost never angry when the kilns were lit. _But he didn’t seem angry,_ Bruno thought as he carefully rose, _which means this must be something… different._

“Hey, kid,” said his father, pushing off the wall and taking one long stride towards him. Bruno edged backwards out of reflex, swallowing as his calves met the wood of his chest. His father smirked a little wider.

“Hello, Father,” Bruno said, trying to keep any hint of unease from his voice. “Is there something you need?”

“You could say that,” he replied evasively, rocking back on his heels and taking a step towards the door. He glanced back over his shoulder at Bruno, expression souring with impatience. “Hurry up, there’s something I need you for in the barn.”

Bruno blinked, confusion warring with shock. Why did his father want with him _there?_ Until recently, he’d been forbidden on pain of brutal punishment from going anywhere near the barn and its enchanting facilities - even now, he was only allowed inside for menial labor that his father couldn’t be bothered with any longer. A small, cautious spark of hope sprung up that perhaps he’d be learning to enchant golems, but he quickly banked it with caution. It wouldn’t help him to throw optimism around like confetti.

He followed his father to the barn, where the massive golem stood dormant in the middle of the floor. Sunlight streamed in through the door, painting the bone-white clay of its legs a soft gold. Its eyes were still a dead black, clogged with spiderwebs. Bruno paused, staring up at it with a shiver. He’d always felt uneasy around it, even though it hadn’t been activated in years.

“Come here, I don’t have all day,” his father snapped, voice echoing from the other side of the golem, and Bruno hurried after him. He stood at a respectful distance to the furnace, watching as his father stoked the flames. He turned to face Bruno when he was done, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist. It left a dark stain on the leather of the enchanter’s gloves, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“I think it’s about time to pass down the family business, kid,” he said, walking over to the golem and sliding his hand up the hardened ceramic plate of its thigh. “She’s not gonna service herself, you know.”

His father grinned again, tongue sliding out from between pointed teeth, and Bruno chuckled weakly, unsure of the correct response. He couldn’t believe it. Was his father actually going to teach him enchanting?

“What do you need me to do?” he asked, voice eager and shocked in equal measure as he stepped closer to the golem. His father tilted his head to the side, dragging his gaze down Bruno’s body. His eyes narrowed.

“Just stay still,” he said, whipping one arm out to grab Bruno by the back of the neck and slam him into the ground. Bruno hit the ground with a thud, already trying to scramble upright - the ground was no place to be in a fight, especially if the other side had the upper hand - but his father planted one heavy, booted foot on his back to keep him pinned. Bruno rolled desperately, reaching behind him to grab his father’s ankle with the hopes to maybe, somehow, knock him off-balance. Instead, he felt his hand caught in the grip of an enchanter’s glove. His arm was yanked straight up behind him and Bruno let out a sob of pain, which soon became a scream as the limb was pushed to the brink of dislocation. His father laughed.

“I told you to stay still, you little shit,” came the voice from behind him, and the pressure of the boot on his back became nearly-crushing before vanishing entirely. Bruno wheezed, shoulder throbbing, cheek pressed into the dirt. He could hear footsteps from behind, and clothes rustling, until a leather glove grabbed his aching shoulder and roughly flipped him over. The back of his head slammed into the golem’s foot. His father grabbed him by the throat with one hand, eyes wild, breathing heavy, one knee planted on either side of his torso.

“This might pinch a bit,” he said, teeth bared in a mockery of a smile. He squeezed the hand around Bruno’s throat and placed the other one on his face, palm pressed to Bruno’s forehead and fingers splayed against his hair. The leather smelled of smoke and rot, and Bruno bucked wildly against the pressure of the hands. He could see the gears on the back of the gloves glowing red with the touch of his father’s soul wavelength, and his stomach clenched as he struggled harder. What was he _doing?_ Enchanter’s gloves focused the wavelength of their user to create small pseudo-souls for their creations, designed for use on inanimate objects _only_ \- as far as he knew, you _couldn’t_ use them on humans. He bucked again, desperate to get out of his father’s grip. His father lifted one knee from the ground, slamming it into his stomach, and he let out a strangled moan.

“Now, now, we can’t have you trying to leave yet. This isn’t even the fun part,” he hissed, pressing harder on Bruno’s throat. Bruno choked, head aching and vision swimming into grey, before the pressure lifted enough for him to gasp for breath again. The stench of rot was stronger, now, dark stains seeping through the leather of the gloves, and he gagged as a streak of foul-smelling fluid was smeared across the bridge of his nose. The reek of burning leather was rising off the gloves, now, too, as the gears on the back glowed brighter and brighter.

“Now, see,” his father started conversationally, eyes narrowed in focus, “your old pop’s not doing so well. Falling apart at the seams, you know.”

Bruno watched dark tendrils of ooze slink up and over the cuffs of his father’s gloves, eyes watering at the stench as his head began to throb in earnest.

“I can usually hold it together longer than this, but, eh. Bodies wear out so quickly these days, you never know how long you’ve got.”

Bruno whimpered as the throbbing in his head grew nearly unbearable, feebly pawing at his father’s arms to make him stop. The rot was roiling its way up the enchanter’s throat, now, blisters of pus swelling and popping as he spoke, and Bruno retched, eyes watering at the sting of bile in his mouth.

“At least that bitch of a wife I had gave me a son this time - it took me a year and a half to track down this body, did you know that? Eh, not like it matters. You’re next.”

Clear, yellowish fluid dripped from his perforated skin as he talked, his tongue slipping out through a hole in the flesh below his jaw. His outline began to glow, enveloping his body in a wavering light that shivered at the outlines until it collapsed and poured into the putrefaction-stained gloves. The gloves remained in place, leather burning as it touched the gears, which were glowing with a blue-white intensity, vibrating slightly as they tried to contain the full force of the decaying enchanter’s soul. Bruno’s face was burning with heat, and he squirmed weakly in a last-ditch attempt at escape. The gloves were stronger, though, pinning him to the floor with his father’s brute strength as the glow of his father’s soul wavelength rose from the burning gears like steam. The glove on his throat clenched its fingers, forcing his mouth open with a gasp of breath, and the gears abruptly lost their glow as the vaporous mass of his father’s soul erupted out of them. Slick, oily tendrils of the pearlescent vapor rushed down his nose and mouth, clogging his throat and pooling in his lungs, and thick tears leaked from the corners of his eyes as he struggled for breath.

When the rot-stained gloves finally fell to the ground, no longer sustained by the will of their master, Bruno struggled feebly onto all-fours, one hand clutching his throat as he retched again. The gloves were gone, and the vapor had settled, but something was still trapped in his throat. He heaved again, and again, horror rising like bile as he felt his neck distend and stretch under the girth of the _thing_ lodged inside it. He heaved again, gag reflex going wild as it reached the back of his mouth, and with a strangled, guttural cough the mystery object slid out of his mouth on a wave of saliva and stomach acid. He stared down at it blankly, eyes dull and unblinking in their sockets as sweat and spit dripped softly from his chin.

The thing on the floor was a glowing sphere the size of an apple, with a wispy blue vapor tail waving off of it - something that he might, at one point, have called beautiful. As it was, he simply knelt in the shadow of his father’s golem, muscles twitching with the aftershocks of his ordeal. He didn’t notice as his hand released his throat of its own accord, reaching out to touch the soul pulsing gently amid the vomit, nor did he notice as his body sat itself back on its heels. His head tilted back as the soul was lifted towards it, and white curls of vapor wisped out with his breath. The soul dropped into his open mouth, slipping past cracked lips as the already-bruising jaw worked to chew and swallow. His body flared blue-white as it slid into his stomach, jags of light wavering indecisively before condensing into a thick-bladed short sword. It clattered to the ground by the puddle of bile, and sat dormant.

Time lapsed by with a serenity belying the past few minutes’ violence. The light pouring in through the opened door cast a sundial shadow behind the golem, its hulking shape tracing an arc against the back wall as the hours passed. The furnace crackled fitfully, fed by the light breeze and the remnants of a few seasoned logs. The sun, bloodred and massive, was sinking behind the treeline before anything stirred.

The sword flashed white along its blade, jags of brilliance burning off to nothing as the steel slid back beneath the bones of its human host. The body of Bruno Dusek stood up, arms reaching above his head in a deep stretch. His back arched far enough for his fingers to graze the dirt, accompanied by an audible pop of vertebrae, before he snapped upright again and shook each limb experimentally.

“Yeah, this’ll do fine,” he muttered, hoarse voice slipping out between his sharpened teeth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re never really told how golem-enchanting works or why the gloves are necessary, only that it’s a localized industry that animates clay figures. So, again, I had to do a LOT of worldbuilding on my own. Here’s what I came up with:
> 
> Enchanter’s gloves focus the user’s soul wavelength into a tiny pseudo-soul that’s enough to animate the golem but not enough to grant true sentience. 
> 
> This explains why they could even be affected by the Kishin’s wavelength in the first place, as they do technically have souls, and also why the golems would be the last ones to be affected - their souls are too simple to be corrupted by anything other than complete, irreversible madness. This also explains how Giriko was able to body-jump with it in the first place. Assuming that souls are made of ‘concentrated wavelength’, for lack of a better word, the gloves should - at an extreme end - theoretically be capable of converting someone’s entire soul into pure wavelength and embedding it in the body of another creature, whether that creature is a clay golem or a prototype weapon.
> 
> Also, re: Giriko’s rot issue. Remember when Black*Star was so dead set on mastering the Uncanny Sword that the intensity of his soul wavelength started exceeding his body’s capacity to absorb it, with basically resulted in him soul-force-attacking himself every time he tried and almost getting permanent muscle damage? Same thing’s happening here. Giriko was the first successful weapon prototype. Giriko’s been eating the souls of his vessels as a quick power boost to seal himself into the new body, and as we all know, eating human souls is Bad News. This on top of his soul already having the equivalent of super buggy alpha version weapon ‘software’ installed, and you end up with a soul that corrodes each new vessel a little bit faster every time.


	5. 'Home' And 'Sweet' Are Relative

Mosquito glared up into the rearview mirror at the young ruffian sprawled so indecorously beside Lady Arachne, allowing himself a sharp exhale of displeasure before starting the engine of the now-topless vehicle. A tepid wind flowed sluggishly through the twilit forest, creating a shimmer of motion through the leaves but doing nothing to alleviate the overwhelming stillness that had fallen after the weapon’s noisy little display. Tch. Some people simply had no understanding of proper luxury and class.

Shifting the car into drive - one of the few good things about the modern age was the convenience of an automatic gearshift - Mosquito accelerated smoothly down the flat, red road. He glanced periodically at the rearview mirror, although not to check for approaching traffic. This was Lady Arachne’s realm, after all, not some common expressway. No, Mosquito checked the mirror to ensure that Giriko was exactly as obnoxious as ever. If he even was Giriko any more, that is. No human was built to live thirty lives in one, much less an unstable prototype such as the Nakatsukasa brat - he’d probably grown quite insane in her ladyship’s absence.

_So much for the great triumph of magic over the natural order,_ whispered a traitorous voice in the back of his head. _If it hadn’t been for those glorified lab-rats, Lady Arachne would never have been driven into hiding._

Mosquito shushed the voice. The eight hundred-year exile hadn’t _technically_ been the fault of her first human subjects, he reminded himself - witches, as solitary as they can be, do tend to notice when they’re hunted for their souls. The Reaper certainly hadn’t helped matters, either, storming through the castle like he owned the place. Hmph. It had taken Mosquito _weeks_ to put everything to rights after he’d left. But no matter. Lady Arachne would soon see for herself how faithfully he’d kept it. If he was lucky, she might even… hmm, no. Best not to think thoughts so distracting as those, not while operating a vehicle.

He drove sedately through the trees, following the red-paved road until the great bulk of Lady Arachne’s castle loomed out of the haze. It was even more impressive than it had been during her reign, if he did say so himself - eight hundred years was ample time for a little renovation, and the hundreds of masked Arachnophobia lackeys thronging by the gate added a wonderful little flair to the castle’s overall aesthetic.  He parked the vehicle and made his way to Lady Arachne’s door, opening it with a bow.

“Welcome home, madame,” he said, glancing up at her as she exited the car. The lackeys cheered, raising their black-clad arms in celebration at the return of their leader, and the corner of her lips curled up in a slight smile.

“You’ve done well, Mosquito,” she purred, opening her fan with a soft _snick_. She fanned it gently, stirring the still air around her face as her minions continued to shout greetings. “You can drain one of them later, if you wish. You must be hungry.”

“Thank you, milady,” he replied, satisfaction welling up inside him at her words as she walked towards the castle gates. The spider-masked masses parted before her as she swept imperiously closer to her old seat of power. Mosquito hummed out an exhale, pleased that everything was as it should be. The sensation vanished abruptly as Giriko emerged from the backseat. He muscled past Mosquito, standing with his arms crossed behind his head as he leered at the sight before them. He glanced back as Mosquito attended to the vehicle he’d brutalized, tongue slipping through sharp, bared teeth.

“Bet it’d be easy for you to take your fill from any of those sheep,” he snickered, “what with you being such a fuckin’ suck-up and all.”

Mosquito froze, mustache bristling with indignation. The nerve of that little upstart, to insult him so uncouthly - him, Arachne’s most loyal servant! He took a breath, closed the car door, and slowly turned around to face him.

“If it weren’t for Lady Arachne, I would have drained you years ago, _Subject HS-N07,_ ” he said icily, watching the man grow pale around his ridiculous metal piercings. The feeling of satisfaction came back with a vengeance, and Mosquito grinned, revealing teeth every bit as sharp as those of the whelp in front of him.

“Oh, yes, I know who you are. I was the one who gave you humans food and water all those years ago, I was the one who prepared the souls that made you what you are, and when your brother became a casualty of scientific advancement? _I_ was the one who scrubbed his splattered remains off the floor of the lab. I’ve been Arachne’s loyal servant longer than you’ve been alive, and it was _me_ she trusted to orchestrate all matters of importance in her absence. _You_ are barely more than a sentry. You are _beneath me,_ ” he finished, glaring up at the glorified lab rat who dared to challenge him with such petty insults. Giriko’s face was frozen with an unidentifiable mix of emotions by the end of his speech, and Mosquito nodded to himself, turning to wade through the dispersing masses of lackeys and rejoin Lady Arachne in the castle. He’d barely made it three steps before a peal of laughter rang out behind him.

He turned around to see Giriko laughing riotously, bent over with one hand braced on his thigh and the other clutching his abdomen. Mosquito frowned, unsure what could have possibly elicited this reaction. Hadn’t he been in shock not thirty seconds ago? Hadn’t Mosquito properly shown him his place?

“What, may I ask, is so utterly hilarious?” he asked crossly, standing in front of the cackling weapon with his arms folded neatly across his chest.

“It’s you, you wrinkly old fart!” Giriko exclaimed, straightening up and flinging his arms wide above his head. “You think I give a rat’s ass about any of that? HELL no. The fuck do I care about shit that happened eight hundred years ago?”

He started pacing, four steps by four steps, pivoting neatly on his heel like a soldier, the manic grin plastered across his face tugging at the silver brace across his nose.

“So what if my brother got juiced? It just means he was too weak to handle it. I’m stronger than any of them ever were now. Arachne made me _better_. I coulda slaughtered Death’s little kiddies back there without breaking a sweat if I hadn’t been so fucking rusty. What about you? You suck up any fighting blood in the last thousand years, or are you just some dick-faced tightass with a glorified desk job?”

The last half of his sentence came out in a patronizing sing-song as Giriko stopped in front of Mosquito, leaning down and stopping just short of brushing noses with the vampire. His tongue lolled out past his sharpened teeth, and a wave of sour breath washed over Mosquito’s face. Mosquito’s mustache bristled a little harder.

“Why, you-! I’ll teach you to respect your betters, you little punk!” he barked, drawing on his magical reserves to pull forth his body from 100 years ago. No chainsaw edge could damage that, weapon or not. Giriko stepped back, beckoning with one hand.

“Let’s see what you’re made of, you obsolete piece of shit!” he called, jags of light flashing around his arms and legs in a partial transformation.

“Better material than you, I’m sure!” Mosquito called back, eyeing up the space around him. There should be enough room to transform - the car was a lost cause anyway. He pulled on his former form, ready to unleash its full strength on the little upstart in front of him -

“Giriko, didn’t you hear me in Loew? I don’t like boys who shout,” came Arachne’s icy voice from behind them. Mosquito withered guiltily, ashamed of losing his decorum in front of his lady. He removed his hat in remorse, head bowed.

“I’m sorry for my conduct, Milady, it shan’t happen again,” he murmured.

Arachne ignored him, pointing her closed fan at the two of them in turn. “Come with me. I have much to discuss with the both of you.”

“Yes, Milady,” said Mosquito and Giriko in unison, before glaring daggers at each other after Arachne turned to walk back to the castle.

“This isn’t over,” Mosquito hissed as they followed his mistress up the blood-red flagstones.

“Damn straight,” Giriko muttered back, clearly not put out at all by Arachne’s intervention.

Mosquito forced himself to let it be for now, walking in silence towards the castle. It could always be settled later, in a more decorous matter. And besides - the brash hooligan walking by his side was only human, with a soul that wore his borrowed body down a little more every day. He wouldn’t last more than another few decades, if he didn’t get himself killed in combat first. Mosquito was patient. He could wait. And if that new-old hooligan died a little earlier than he might have, well. All the better for him.

Giriko, several paces ahead, was oblivious to the death glare boring into his skull from behind. He paused just inside the castle gate, eyeing up the main building ahead. It hadn’t changed much from what he remembered as a kid, not that that said anything - any memories from that far back were hazier than the humid-ass forest he was standing in. Still, he felt a tug of recognition as his eyes roved up and down the edifice.

“Lab cage, sweet lab cage, am I right?” he muttered to himself, wondering idly whether those had stayed the same as well. Then, shrugging, he jogged across the open courtyard towards the front entrance. Arachne was expecting him, and he didn’t want to keep her waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there it is. Happy Reverb, everyone! I hope you enjoyed it. Be sure to check out the art that this fic accompanied, as well as rebornfromash's fic on the same art - you can find them both on the Grigoriwings Reverb masterlist (http://grigoriwings.yuku.com/topic/658/2015-Fic-and-Art-Masterpost). There's been a ton of amazing fic, art, and other things to come out of this event, and you can find everything that's posted so far (or everything that's posted, period, if you're reading this when it's over) at that link. Happy reading!


End file.
